Heraclitus

They taul’ me, Heraclitus, that ye had worn awa’:
I grat to mind hoo aft we ca’d the crack atween the twa
Until the heark’nin’ sun gaed doon news-weary i’ the Wast:
An’ noo for lang ye’re in the mools, whaur a’ maun lie at last.
Still, still they pipe your mavises, though sair the Makkar’s miss’t,
For Death, that coffins a’ the lave, your sangs can never kist.